


Pieces of You

by Yoonaya



Category: GOT7
Genre: A little bit of angst probably, But they're not that important tbh, M/M, Romance, The rest of GOT7 appear too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 06:02:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6841804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yoonaya/pseuds/Yoonaya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jackson travels around the world as a photographer. Mark is a gymnast he meets by chance on one of his voyages, and who becomes closer than either one of them could have imagined.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Casablanca, Rabat

 

 

 

“I am a camera with its shutter open, quite passive, recording, not thinking.

Someday, all this will have to be developed, carefully printed, fixed.”

 

Christopher Isherwood, _Goodbye to Berlin_

 

 

*

 

The heat of the sun that shines down on Jackson is scorching, swirling a droplet of sweat from his forehead to his chin before it falls to the ground. In Morocco, the sun looks different: a ball of burnt orange suspended above the beige desert underneath, its warmth ballooning the thick air around Jackson until it presses down at him, suffocating. He stands underneath a terracotta archway leading to the town square, his linen shirt swaying in the wind. The sand underneath his feet crackles as Jackson moves his sandals, the sound the only thing he hears, crisp and clear. His camera is in his hands (but really, when isn’t it?) and Jackson bends his back in order to get a clearer shot of what’s in front of him: a withered ivory fountain that’s been dry for as long as he’d been here. One that, as villagers told him, would remain dry for the rest of the summer. The man had laughed at him as he had explained this, mocking Jackson for his naivety, though it had not been with malice.

 

(‘You foreigners all think Morocco is best in the summer. Come back in _shata_! That’s when you take picture.’

 

‘I’m going to Norway in the winter’, Jackson had replied. The man had only smiled.)

 

By the right side of the cracked column of the fountain lies scattered fruit, its colours vibrant against the dull sand. A cluster of bananas, growing brown and unwanted; purple and green grapes that had stumbled off a market cart in the afternoon and had been forgotten; the peel of a dragon fruit, its skin bright pink, nearly fluorescent.

 

Just an hour before the square had still been bustling with people: men and women in long robes the colour of moss and pomegranates rummaging their hands through turmeric and saffron, children with dark hair and dark skin running after small white dogs wagging their tails, a group of greying men sitting on wooden stools in front of a riad, the tea hidden in their golden teacups sickingly sweet. Now, the place breathes silence – relief. Only Jackson is here to witness the square in its true form, naked for him to see. He takes the snap. When he moves his head away from the camera, he has to blink away the black spots that appear in his vision. The sun is too powerful, too blinding at this time of the day, and so Jackson concludes he has done enough anyway. Now it’s time to return to his hotel on the other part of town. As another droplet of sweat rolls its way down his back, he hides his camera away.

 

An hour later, when his body has been thoroughly shaken by the rocking of the ramshackle bus, Jackson finds himself locked in his dark room (or rather, his hotel bathroom, to which he had assigned a new function). He has a couple of towels shoved under the door to block out any light, a red lightbulb dangling above his head fastened to the showerhead with some wire. The stinging smell of photo chemicals reaches his nose as he bathes a print in the water basin, sliding the picture through the water. He holds the print up by its corner, letting the liquid slowly drip off the picture before hanging it with the others: a collection of pictures tightened onto a line of robe by white and pink clothespins. It’s been a while now; the images on the first prints are starting to appear. Excited, Jackson takes the first one in his hands.

 

This was one of the pictures he had taken on his first day in Morocco, when he was still in Casablanca. Its landscape is that of one of the greener areas Jackson had managed to find. In the far left corner of the picture, a slim argan tree twirls up from the ground into the sky, its slender trunks dangling in the air as elegantly as the hands of a prima ballerina in first position. Behind it is a historical Moroccan building. Its yellow bricks glisten golden in the sun; its mighty archway breathe power and conduct. When the viewer looks inside the archway, he finds a slight fata morgana, winking at them from inside the courtyard, drawing them closer. On the side of the right wall, ivy is flirting its way up, wanting to kiss the sun above. All of this, Jackson had noticed when he had taken the picture. But what he hadn’t seen was the figure of a person hidden just by the mighty trunk of the tree. Now, with the picture enlarged, Jackson can tell it’s a man, leaning against the argan. Probably looking for some shade, he muses, as he recalls how hot it had been that day. The man looks tall and slender (a bit like the tree itself, his mind adds absentmindedly) and the expression on his face is pensive. His nose is sharp and his hair is short, combed to the side or swept that way by the tender wind. If he had turned just a bit more, he would be facing the camera; but alas, now his position is between a side-profile and his back, as if the man were in the process of walking away from Jackson.

 

In his darkroom, Jackson groans. The picture would have been perfect if it hadn’t been for the man. Jackson didn’t _do_ portraits, or any type of picture of a person for that matter, at least not since a disastrous attempt at college. He deliberates tearing the image apart – as he usually does with failed work – but for some reason, his hands falter. His body stills, staring at the picture in his hands. After a second or two he puts it aside, his gloved hands carefully wrapping it in plastic. It’s a nice picture nonetheless, Jackson decides as he moves on to the next one, and that’s the last he thinks of it for some time.

 

*

 

As Jackson sits at the bar, he stares at the various bottles lines up on the shelf behind the tuxedo-clad waiter. There is soft purple lighting coming up from behind each bottle, giving all of them a peculiar tint. It’s tacky; he doesn’t like it. Jackson swirls around the ice in his glass of scotch and takes another sip. The liquid burns nicely in his throat. Two tables away, an American couple, blonde and blue-eyed, giggles obnoxiously as they mud around with their shisha pipe.

 

Normally, Jackson would never have chosen a hotel like this – after all, he wouldn’t find his best pictures here – but then he hadn’t planned on taking a detour to Rabat. There’s to be a festival here this Saturday, and Jackson is excited to visit the emptied streets on the other side of the city to see what treasures might lie there. But that’s not for another three days. In the meantime, Jackson isn’t really sure what to shoot. It’s half past nine in the evening and he had deliberated taking his camera out, but the jetlag is finally kicking in. He feels too excited to sit still, his body jittery yet tired at the same time. His muscles are too sore to do any exercise at this hour, Jackson thinks as someone sits down on the stool next to him, so he had better forgo fitness for another day. At this rate he’ll be gaining weight in no time.

 

Another sip. The man next to him orders (‘A white martini, with ice’,) and Jackson glances up at him. It’s nothing more than normal human curiosity, to see who is speaking; an evolutionary reaction to another person, but when Jackson looks up at the stranger, something in him jolts.

 

The man is sitting up straight, his arms folded over each other where they lean on the bar. His nose is straight and his eyes are dark and small, his plush hair parted gently as though done by the wind. Jackson knows – he recognises this man from somewhere. The frustration of not knowing the other’s name eats at him. His mind rakes through the past few days, through months and years before, but he comes up blank. In this profession, he has come to meet so many people (often very briefly) he has lost count, and it isn’t uncommon for him to recognise a face but fail to remember a name. But with this man, Jackson isn’t even sure whether he _has_ met him before.

 

The man turns to face him. Right in that moment it clicks in his mind (slender, like the branches of the argan tree), but before Jackson can turn away he has been caught staring for too long. There is no slipping away unnoticed.

 

‘ _Salam_ ’, he greets, and nods. The man’s jaw is set tight, his lips straight with coldness, but he does nod back. ‘ _Salam_ ’, he echoes back at Jackson. His voice is deep and warm, like honey blooming in his throat. Jackson can’t help but compare the man now to the image of him in the photograph. The skin beneath his white button-up seems to have gotten more tan and his eyes are stronger now that he isn’t lost in thought. At first Jackson hadn’t been sure whether it truly was him, but he is now. There is something about the other man that he had felt even in the photograph. A certain sort of calm radiates from within the other, a silence in the slowness and carefulness of his movements.

 

Jackson is staring again. The man gives him an odd look.

 

‘Have we met before?’ the other asks him, voice steady. Jackson snaps out of it.

 

‘Shit, no, sorry – I… I photographed you, once’, he tries to explain. The man frowns and tilts his head in confusion, a questioning look shot his way. Jackson waves his hands, flustered.

 

‘You don’t understand’, he hurries to add, ‘I’m a professional photographer. When I was in Casablanca I took a picture and you were in it, but I didn’t realize, I swear I would have asked if I had known – ‘

 

‘Casablanca?’ the man cuts him off. Jackson nods. The other moves his gaze to the ceiling as he seems to recall something, his mouth falling open ever so slightly. ‘By the Hassan Tower? Oh yeah, I remember seeing some photographer there, actually! With the kit and everything, right?’

 

When Jackson nods excitedly, the man cracks a smile, his white teeth bared. Jackson thinks he forgets how to breathe for a second. For someone that didn’t photograph people, he sure had chosen someone to break his rule with.

 

‘Did it turn out nice?’ the man asks then, and Jackson suddenly feels very relieved he didn’t throw the picture away. He doesn’t think he could have lied; not when the other is looking at him with that smile.

 

‘It was okay.’ He replies honestly, shrugging before he takes another sip of his drink. The man now turns his entire body to face him, and Jackson keels he won’t be in his hotel room anytime soon. A voice in the back of his mind whispers how he’d like to return to someone else’s room. Jackson swallows. He has to force his gaze away from the man’s red lips as he asks the other for his name. He reminds himself that this is all just pleasant conversation.

 

‘Mark’, he is told, and Jackson wants to repeat the name, see how the weight holds on his tongue. He doesn’t. Instead, he offers his name in return.

 

When he climbs the dimly lit staircase up to his hotel room two hours later, a little buzzed and lightheaded and his legs not quite working as he wants them to, Jackson knows that Mark is an American gymnast who has come to Rabat for a national competition. He knows that, as a boy, Mark used to be interested in photography, but he had fallen off the habit because of the time his gymnastics consumed. As the lock of his hotel door clicks open, Jackson recalls how Mark’s eyes lit up when he had grinned at Jackson’s Paris story; how smooth the skin of his cheeks looked (and if Jackson only stretched out his hand just a little bit – ); how his collarbones curved up beneath the tanned flesh of his chest. He lets himself flop spread-eagle onto the twin bed, staring up at the orange sphere of light on the ceiling underneath which two mosquitos have been trapped. Jackson watches them struggle to escape, knocking their head against the glass each time.

 

His skin feels hot and prickly, and not for the first time that night he wishes he had someone to take to his hotel room. He tries to muster up images of Mark as he closes his eyelids, his right hand trailing down his chest, but it feels too juvenile and, somehow, dirty. Jackson swallows, forcing his eyes open again. He jumps off the bed, walks to the bathroom. The picture is locked away in the cabinet underneath the sink, wrapped in plastic. Jackson fishes it out of the straw basket and holds it in his hands.

 

Mark’s eyes are dark, his gaze cast up to the sky. In his mind, Jackson hears the whistle of the wind rustling the argan leaves.

 


	2. Antartica, Shanghai

*

 

Jackson spends half of June and half of July in Antarctica, photographing penguins as they waggle past him (about 50 meters past him) on their icy floors. A friend of his joins him – Jinyoung, who mostly works for National Geographic and other magazines like it – and for four weeks Jackson’s life consist of eating, jacketing up, photographing, eating, jacketing the fuck off (Jinyoung groans whenever he calls this Jacksoning the fuck off), then sleeping again. They share a hut and reminiscence about when they were twenty and still in college, only dreaming of the life they have now. During a meal of canned brown beans and chicken stock, Jinyoung asks himself how they ended up so lucky. The other talks of his wife and how much he misses her (‘And the kids, too, of course. But you know they can be a handful!’ and Jackson laughs at this as he remembers Misun and her endless stream of why’s).

 

Jinyoung’s life, though the other man is about the same age as him, seems years removed from his. Jinyoung lives a middle class life in a nice country estate hidden away in the woods of Changwon. He has his pretty wife and picture-perfect daughters ('the girls'), and he photographs only 6 months a year for the sake of being able to see them as they grow up. Jackson cannot imagine having someone to come home to (wherever home would be for him) – can image having children even less. He lives his life like a ghost, showing up here and there, making friends and memories but always only staying for a little while. Then he moves on: to the next place, the next photographs; the next person. Most people live their life in a lineair fashion: education, work, love, kids. For Jackson, that was never the case. Every day he would wake up and see the world in another way. He met people whom most of the world had forgotten (or simply didn’t care to remember) and he visited places most would never see. Jackson had always loved living like this. It gave him a way to release his energy – of which people always told him he had too much – and to live his life freely, exactly as he wanted it. There were no rules because there wasn't a pattern for a life like his. And Jackson had never, in all his fifteen years of travelling, wanted it to stop.

 

Yet, as Jinyoung sat there and his eyes lit up with love as he talked about his wife, as Jackson could hear the pure longing for _home_ in his voice, Jackson felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

 

He felt lonely.

 

That night, as Jinyoung snores with his back turned to him, Jackson wishes he had someone to miss. He has so much love to give, but when he closes his eyes and tries to imagine someone lying next to him, his mind comes up blank. 

 

Jackson gets his coat on, pulls the hood up and pulls his two pairs of gloves on. He goes out of the tent into the cold of the night. A landscape of snow, so white it hurts his eyes, meets him. The cold laps hungrily at his nose and his cheeks, the cold wind gushing at every part of his body that is still bare. Thousands of stars sparkle above his head, so many Jackson feels insignificant to their beauty; to the vastness of the universe and the minuteness of himself that they represent. He lifts his head up at the sky, and he cries.

 

*

 

The city lights of Shanghai blink back at Jackson as he peers over the railing of the rooftop, a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other. Jackson thinks they looks like the _shoji_ he saw in Japan – the thin, paper walls that separated each room from another, behind which candlelight looked just like the light of the flats opposite of him now, a colour between fine sand and the snapping flames of a fireplace. Jackson likes nights like this – soft and mellow – and he is glad for the heat after weeks of Arctic coldness. It makes him feel a familiar warmth; as if he were again seven years old and at home with his mother, bent over his maths homework at the kitchen table, her cooking up a beef stew as she softly hummed Cantonese pop songs under her breath. The breeze that flows through the air is cool though not unpleasant as it rustles Jackson’s white shirt.

 

A man, short and fat and with glasses as thick as jam jars, walks up to him before exclaiming: ’You’re Jackson Wang!’

 

It makes Jackson crack out his biggest grin, before he nods and bows in greeting at the older man. A group of people standing a little further away, long slender models and their shorter and fatter agents, look over and smile at the display. One of them whispers something, her mouth reading something along the lines of ‘It’s really him!’ but they do not approach. Jackson is not in the least the most famous – nor most interesting – here tonight.

 

‘I saw the exposition about your work in Nairobi just two months ago, at the Museum of Modern Art. It was fantastic!’ The man says, accentuating the f thickly (‘ _fff_ antastic!’), one hand thrown up in a gesture of ecstasy, his head tilted back. Jackson has to hide his smile behind his hand as the man continues his flamboyant display.

 

‘Let me introduce myself: my name is Jason Huang.’ The shorter says as he shakes Jackson’s hand. ‘I work at the Taiwanese embassy.’

 

‘Ah, Taiwanese?’ Jackson repeats, smiling, ‘ _Ni hao_. I’m Jackson Wang, but then you knew that.’

 

The man chuckles politely. Then he finally lets go of his grip on Jackson’s hand, his small sausage fingers sliding back into the pockets of his dress pants. He informs Jackson that he’s a big admirer, patting the younger on the shoulder (for which he has to stand on his tippy-toes, which makes Jackson have to suppress another childish giggle).

 

I’m leading a project for young Taiwanese artists,’ Jason explains, and Jackson begins to understand the gist of this conversation. ‘Many of them look up to you! An Asian photographer doing so well. You’re a talented kid,’ he says, even though Jackson has long been a kid at 27. Jackson shakes his head, brushing off the compliment.

 

‘Not at all,’ he objects, and the man waves his hand in dissent. It seems he is just about to say something else (something which Jackson expects to finally be the actual offer, hidden in silk sheets of a verbal allusion), but then he seems to recognise someone over his shoulder. Whoever it is makes his eyes lit up and his mouth form a small ‘o’ of delight. Jackson snaps his head in the same direction, turning around to look for this person in the crowd. By his side, the man yells over to his friend: ‘Yi-En!’ to which a waterfall of unintelligible Hokkien follows.

 

At this, a tall man who had formerly been talking to a group of young women jerks his head in their direction. When his eye falls on Jason, he smiles lazily, lifting a hand up to his face in greeting. Jackson watches, nailed to the ground, as the man excuses himself from the group and starts to walk in their direction. It’s the same as last time: a déjà-vu in Jackson’s mind, and for a moment he thinks he’s sleeping, so absurd is the coincidence. ‘The world is a small place’ his uncle would always say. Jackson always hated that phrase, but perhaps it _was_ true, because right now Mark Tuan is walking up to him as if he had been plucked out of Rabat and placed into Shanghai, placed right by Jackson’s side.

 

Next to him, Jason starts babbling, oblivious to the crisis in Jackson’s mind. ‘Ah, Yi-En, so good to see you!’ He cries, and Mark smiles as he leans in to embrace the older man. ‘I knew you were invited, but I didn’t think you’d come tonight, with the game in just a week. Good to see you though, good to see you! Oh – let me introduce to you, this is my good friend – ‘

 

‘Jackson Wang.’ Mark finishes for him, his eyes finally falling on Jackson’s face. ‘I know.’

 

Jason stops in his tracks, his gaze moving from Jackson back to Mark, before slowly asking: ‘You two know each other?’

 

‘We’ve met.’ The slender man replies before Jackson can even think to answer, his eyes still not leaving Jackson’s gaze. ‘It’s good to see you again.’

 

‘Likewise,’ Jackson manages to creak out, suddenly feeling incredibly small underneath Mark’s burning gaze, which is ridiculous because, really, Jackson hadn’t been short of things to say since he was born – yet now he finds himself flabbergasted. Finally, Mark’s eyes soften and his lips curve up in a smile. He looks back at Jason.

 

‘ _Dua hia_ , do you mind if I borrow him for a bit?’ he asks, one arm sliding around Jackson’s shoulder, ‘We have some catching up to do, I believe.’

 

Jason, now staring up at the two men at least 20 cm taller than him, nods in agreement, his expression still riddled with confusion. ‘Sure, sure,’ he hurries, sliding a business cart out of his wallet and into Jackson’s shirt pocket, ‘contact me? We can go for lunch sometime, discuss business.’

 

Jackson promises the older man he’ll call, bowing 90 degrees as the other dashes away to the buffet on the other side of the roof. Then it’s just Mark and him. For a moment, neither of them say anything, the jazz music played by the background band filling their ears, interrupted only by the gentle buzz of conversations going on around them.

 

‘So,’ he finally offers.

 

‘So.’

 

‘You speak Taiwanese?’

 

‘Yeah. My parents are,’ comes the explanation, Mark shrugging. They’re standing close together like this; Mark’s arm draped over Jackson’s shoulders, their faces only a couple of inches apart. The other man’s eyes are filled with something Jackson understands, his gaze flickering to his lips, once, twice.

 

‘You look nice in a suit. Different from your work get-up.’

 

‘You don’t think I look nice in sweats and a tank top?’ Jackson asks, feigning hurt. Mark chuckles, burying his face in between Jackson’s neck and his collarbones for a moment.

 

‘I’ll have you know I’ve been told that’s one of my best looks,’ Jackson continues joking, grinning when Mark does too, and he lifts his head up from Jackson’s body. His eyes find Jackson’s, small and dark and calculating. He steps that much closer.

 

‘What’s your best look?’

 

*

 

Jackson has Mark pushed up against the hotel door, the buttons of the other’s shirt half undone, one hand fisted in his hair and the other possessively placed on his hip. It’s he who breaks the kiss first, panting heavily. Mark’s hotel key falls to the floor rattling, but neither of them pay mind to the sound.

 

’Wanted to do this since I first saw you at the bar,’ Jackson groans, pressing a kiss to Mark’s collarbone before sucking hard, enjoying the sharp intake of breath it draws from the other. He can hear Mark pant above him as he lets his mouth slide further down. Two hands push at his suit jacket, impatient.

 

‘Take it off,’ the other’s deep voice demands, and Jackson can’t help but smirk as he pulls his mouth away from Mark’s stomach.

 

‘Thought you said you liked me in my suit,’ he reminds the thinner man, even though he has his jacket shrugged off in a millisecond (it had been some time and frankly, he was impatient as well), Mark’s hand instantly coming up to attack the buttons of his white shirt.

 

‘Want to see what’s underneath,’ Mark drawls, one hand sliding up Jackson’s thigh to palm him through his black slacks. The sudden contact makes Jackson groan embarrassingly loud, a surge of lust rushing through him. He hooks his arms underneath Mark’s knees, hoisting the other man up against the wall. Mark’s legs wrap around Jackson’s waist as if they were made to.

 

‘Fuck,’ Jackson curses between kisses, open-mouthed and sloppy, ‘you’re so fucking bendy.’

 

Mark laughs once more, slow and languidly, his eyes a little hooded and darkly glazed over with lust. ‘You like that?’

 

‘Gonna have a lot of fucking fun with that,’ Jackson answers, mind heady with imaginations of Mark underneath him, sweating and moaning. All of a sudden then, with surprising strength, Mark slides his feet back onto the ground, one hand gripping Jackson’s arm and the other on his neck, and spins them around so that Jackson is the one pressed to the wall.

 

‘Christ,’ Jackson breathes.

 

‘No, just Mark,’ the other replies, and it _actually_ makes Jackson laugh. Then Mark leans in to suck at his neck, and as Jackson strips the remainder of his shirt off Mark’s shoulders, he knows he’s in for one hell of a night.

 


	3. Shanghai, Paris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be posted as soon as I finish exams, so not for some time.

 

 

*

 

Jackson wakes up to the sound of an American newscaster softly blabbing about a game of cricket. The sound seems to come from far, as if Jackson has his head undersea and the man looms just over the surface of the water, his words muffled. Jackson’s hangover hits him before the sunlight does, and he groans as he pulls the thick white covers over his face. When he dares to peer open his eyes, his gaze falls on the tanned skin of Mark’s belly, and yesterday night comes back to him like a wave. Jackson moans softly as he closes his eyes again, resting one arm over his forehead. A pang strikes through his head (his headache is always the worst when he’s drunk wine) and he wills himself back to sleep. It’s warm underneath the covers, and the gentle rustle of Mark’s hand plucking at the sheets combined with the newscaster’s deep voice has Jackson drifting in and out of darkness for a minute or five, not quite sure whether he’s awake or asleep.

 

When he opens his eyes again the space next to him is empty, the sheets having been pushed back. The television is still on, though now a Chinese variety show crashes into the bedroom, comical sound effects and canned laughter reaching Jackson’s ears. He sits up, the sheets pooled around his waist. At this moment, Mark appears from the bathroom. He’s pulling a sky-blue sweater over his head, blonde hair sticking up at the sides. Jackson’s attention automatically turns to the other man.

 

‘Oh,’ Mark breathes, surprised, ‘you’re awake.’

 

’Yeah, but at what cost?’ Jackson grumbles, pressing one hand to his forehead as another pang strikes through his head, and Mark laughs. The slender man moves to the vanity table, combing through his hair quickly, one, two, three, before he moves to sit on the edge of the bed. Jackson can only see his back as he bends down to pick up his shoe, slide it onto his feet. As it dawns on him what Mark is doing, a feeling of disappointment comes over him.

 

’You’re leaving?’ he asks, trying to keep his voice steady, but it comes out too rough, too frail. It’s unfair to ask Mark to stay – Jackson knows this too – but he’d enjoyed last night and the brief moment of intimacy it had brought to him. He doesn’t think it’s unfair he wants to draw that out just a little longer.

 

Mark turns around to flash Jackson a smile, before he bends down again.

 

’Getting us some breakfast,’ he explains to the floor, and Jackson can feel the dread being lifted from his shoulders, ‘or do buff guys like you not eat in the morning?’

 

‘Not when they’ve got a hot blonde in their bed,’ Jackson grins, pushing back the sheets and crawling over to where Mark is sitting to let his arms snake around the other man’s waist, press a kiss to his neck. The other man laughs, this time louder and with his head tipped back, before sliding out of Jackson’s grip.

 

‘I’m glad I decided to go last night,’ Mark smiles, staring down at Jackson lying curled in the blankets. He has his head propped up with one hand, legs dangling high up in the air. The only thing that’s missing, Mark muses, is a large 80’s phone, his finger twirling around the cord. ‘You know, it wasn’t a coincidence.’

 

‘What do you mean?’ Jackson asks, puzzled.

 

‘I’d seen your name on the guest list,’ Mark admits, his cheeks heating up slightly, ‘’Jackson Wang, the photographer’ – hard to forget,’ he grins before continuing, ‘I’m not really one for parties, otherwise… but I figured I might run into you.’

 

For a moment, Jackson feels triumphant at the thought of Mark wanting to see him so much the other would actively seek him out; feels happy and relieved that he isn’t alone in that desire. Honestly speaking, Mark is just Jackson’s type. Cheeky, chill, really fucking hot (and he’d always had a thing for the lanky ones). He talks easy with Mark, laughs even more easily. On the people front, Jackson is no stranger to conflict. He has bumped into obstacles before, mostly thanks to his outgoing nature and loud character. With most people, Jackson feels like he’s there to entertain and make them laugh, so when he finds someone who can make _him_ laugh without making him feel like he has to return the favour, he savours that.

 

Yet, there’s a gloominess gnawing at his mind. He doesn’t know quite what Mark wants from him, but he doubts it’s anything that would fit his life as it is right now (and he isn’t thinking about changing anything soon). Besides, it’s not like he has anything to give to Mark, and he’s never been one to deceive. He doesn’t want to say what he knows is right; but he knows he has to. So he sits up straight and looks the other in the eye.

 

‘Listen, Mark,’ he begins, pausing briefly, ‘this was really great and you’re a nice guy. But I’m leaving for Paris in four days, y’know.’

 

Mark looms over him, expression unreadable. A lock of hair sticks up straight, curved up to the ceiling in a comical way. Underneath his blue sweater, one of the white collars of his shirt is tucked in wrongly. Jackson feels a strong urge to correct it. Instead he hugs his knees, suddenly feeling too naked for this conversation.

 

‘So?’ comes the retort from the taller man.

 

‘So I don’t want to give you any wrong ideas.’ Jackson concludes lamely.

 

Something in Mark’s jaw tightens. The corners of his lips curve down. Then there’s something that flashes through his eyes and no – no, no, no, Jackson doesn’t like that _at all_. He sits at the edge of the bed, his gaze cast to the floor, wishing he could put the words back in his mouth. Yet he knows that wouldn’t be fair. This is for the best, he thinks, but then why does it feel so horrible?

 

‘I get it,’ Mark says then, voice all chipper like the mood hadn’t soured just a moment ago and it makes Jackson feel even worse. A moment lapses. Neither of them say anything, neither of them dare to look the other in the eye. Both wants more answers, but there’s not enough time in this conversation for all the things to say.

 

‘So,’ Mark breathes finally, ‘are you a coffee or tea kind of guy?’

 

‘Whatever you have is fine by me.’ Jackson replies, and with a quick nod Mark is walking out of the hotel room, the door shutting behind him with a clean click.

 

Jackson lets himself fall back onto the bed with a soft thud, relieved to be alone when he’s feeling this miserable. His suit jacket and white shirt are still scattered on the floor, the remains of last night, and suddenly Jackson considers sneaking out before Mark returns, but even just the thought makes him feel like a grade A asshole. He kicks his feet against the headboard, groaning in frustration. He already dreads the uncomfortable silence that will fill breakfast, the awkward goodbye that will follow.

 

‘This is why I don’t do this shit,’ Jackson mutters under his breath. He roughly shoves the white sheets aside and locks himself in the bathroom, vowing to never get stuck in a one night stand again.

 

*

 

Paris Fashion Week is a whirlwind of colours and noises. A woman saunters past him, her dress blueberry and her oversized sunglasses black-and-white. They remind Jackson of a bug’s eyes. In the corner of the room, far removed from the buffet, a group of female models stand giggling about a story one of them is telling. The narrator’s voice is deep and her language is harsh, her thick Russian accent sticking awkwardly around the English syllables. Their necks are long and slight like a deer’s, their deep blue eyes alluring, and for a moment Jackson actually wishes he was there to take pictures of _them_. It’s surreal, being in a room with so many people that are so beautiful, all absurdly tall and made up to the nines. He feels like he’s entered a different world, one that only exists in paintings and high-end fashion magazines. One of the girls gets called for hair. As she blows a kiss to her friends and walks away, Jackson snaps back to his senses.

 

‘So all of these,’ the woman next to him explains, her hands moving over a group of Dior bags neatly arranged in lines on the table in front of him, their colours fluorescent and many, ‘and then after, you start on make-up. Ask my colleague, Francesca Schiprowski. Okay?’

 

‘Who is she?’ Jackson asks, uselessly looking around the room to try and find someone that could possibly fit the name, as if his eye would fall on someone and his mind would instantly know: this was Francesca Schiprowski. The woman points her finger to one of the vanity tables, indicating a slight and short blonde woman of middle-age who’s poking a brunette in the eyes with black kohl.

 

‘Francesca Schiprowski. Okay? Okay.’ The woman repeats, and then she decides her job’s over, leaving Jackson alone with the ghastly designer bags. He watches her leave, her blob of red curls bobbing up and down as she walks, before he puts one foot on the stool in front of him and positions his camera.

 

*

 

 

 

His friend’s Paris model apartment is just as awful as the Milan one had been, but at least here Kunpimook has a room to himself. Jackson browses through the pictures in his portfolio, photographs taken by some of the best in the world, all making him feel inferior and untalented. He closes the map, slides it to the far corner of the coffee table. At this moment Kunpimook returns from the kitchen, hunched over as he wrenches the door open with his back, two cups of coffee in his hands. Somewhere in the back, a Chinese girl curses at someone on the phone, her profanity fading away as the door closes.

 

‘Pretty cosy,’ Jackson muses, looking around the cramped room of barely 9 m² in which his friend has managed to squeeze all of his belongings.

 

‘Fuck off.’ Kunpimook kindly tells him as he sits down and shoves Jackson’s mug towards his side of the table. Jackson smiles as he lifts the mug up to his lips, takes a sip. Kunpimook sprawls himself over the chair, his back leaning on one rest, his legs splayed over the other, and looks out the window. Half of the view is blocked by an old white townhouse, a rusty brown pipe crawling over its bricks, but the other side shows Paris in half-darkness, the moonlight casting a yellow glow over the low buildings all crouching down beneath the brightness of Montmartre that looms over them from up on its hill, buzzing with excitement and artistry.

 

‘Can I take a picture?’ Jackson asks, following Kunpimook’s gaze. The other shrugs, disinterested. As Jackson gets out his camera, he sits up slightly.

 

‘I thought you were too hipster for digital cameras,’ Kunpimook notes.

 

‘Had to use one for this job.’ Jackson explains, ignoring the hidden insult only because he knows it riles Kunpimook up. Sure enough, his friend casts him an annoyed gaze, eyes fierce with the want to say something biting and more upsetting (not anything truly upsetting, not when they were just playing around like this), but then he waits a little too long and the timing is gone.

 

‘Hand me that blue tub from the nightstand,’ Kunpimook orders. Jackson rummages through a galleon of crèmes and gels and perfumes, before his hand falls on a small pink-with-purple clay mask and Kunpimook tells him ‘that one’. As his friend starts to smear a shitload of purple goo on his face, looking absolutely ridiculous, Jackson can’t help but laugh.

 

‘You look like an idiot,’ he tells Kunpimook, who remains completely serious, between high-pitched giggles.

 

‘I have to get jobs, boy.’ Comes the other’s matter-of-fact reply, ignoring any humour the situation may have. The lack of reaction calms Jackson down. Hysterical laughter is never much fun if it isn’t shared.

 

‘Yeah, whatever pays the rent,’ He snorts, rolling his eyes. Jackson looks around the mess of a room, hoping his eye might fall on a bag of crisps or two, a roll of biscuits maybe, but fails to find anything. He wishes Kunpimook’s roommate, Yugyeom, was here – the other had always been a better host. ‘You have anything to eat? I didn’t have dinner and I’m starving.’

 

Kunpimook stares at him with a glare that could kill a man.

 

‘You’re in a model apartment.’ He deadpans.

 

‘Okay, no food,’ Jackson shrugs. He lets himself fall back into his chair, sighing deeply. ‘Man, you’re the worst host,’ he complains, frowning at his friend, ‘at least let me make out with one of your hot model friends, then.’

 

This time it’s Kunpimook’s turn to roll his eyes.

 

‘They’re not into guys! Not all male models are gay,’ he protests, ‘besides, I wouldn’t have thought you would want to hook up with anyone right now.’

 

‘What the hell does that mean?’ Jackson snarls. He has no idea what Kunpimook is on about, yet the other sends him a look that means he somehow _should_. ‘What?’ he barks.

 

‘Who the hell is Mark Tuan then?’ Kunpimook asks, and Jackson’s blood runs cold. He has no idea how Kunpimook knows Mark’s name since he hadn’t dared tell anyone about the other man. He couldn’t even if he had wanted to; it was far too complicated. He was scared people would find out how selfish he was, wanting Mark but not wanting him at the same time. Frankly, he had tried not to think of Mark after he had left the hotel room like a coward. The other had been unbearably kind until the end to someone as undeserving as him.

 

Some of the panic must show on his face, for Kunpimook quickly adds: ‘Someone called Mark Tuan has sent you, like, five WhatsApp messages. _Long_ ones. With the heart emoji prominently used.’

 

At these words, Jackson can feel his heart glow in his chest, the blood-red organ hiding beneath layers of flesh and skin pumping adrenaline through his veins with great fervour. The idea of Mark’s thoughts being with him makes him feel triumphant. Jackson doesn’t know what he has done to deserve the other’s attention, but he doesn’t necessarily crave answers. All he knows is that he’s grateful; no questions asked.

 

He fishes his cell phone out of his pocket at the speed of lightning, opening WhatsApp in panic and dreading to think what else Kunpimook might have read. Jackson didn’t have secrets, but he did have things he would _prefer_ nobody knew. A Safari window hangs open on a particularly spicy video and Jackson nearly has a fit. He wants to scold Kunpimook for violating his privacy for the umpteenth time, but he knows it’s no use – knows Kunpimook is convinced he has done no wrong at all. So he takes another breath, holds in the anger that threatens to explode.

 

He returns to WhatsApp, clicks on the unopened messages – Mark’s number still isn’t recognized. Jackson hadn’t thought to change this, hadn’t thought himself lucky enough that he ever would. He thinks he feels his heart skip a beat.

 

 _How’s Paris?_ The last message asks, followed by a photo of Mark on the trainee’s bench, his shirt reading Beijing 2018, Team USA. His hair seems darker, but his smile remains the same.

 

Jackson puts his phone away.

 

‘I have to make a call.’ He tells Kunpimook, and with that he’s walking out of the other’s room, down creaky stairs and narrow hallways.

 

*

 

The phone rings three times before Mark’s voicemail clicks in, and it’s then that Jackson realizes he hadn’t planned on Mark not picking up. He listens to the message Mark has recorded, listens to that deep and calm voice, and knows has no idea what to say. Jackson stands underneath a yellow streetlamp in front of Kunpimook’s ratty model apartment, feeling very much like some asshole on the cover of an indie band, staring at the 24-hour supermarket across the street where inside a small Senegalese woman sits behind the cash registrar. The bright neon ‘OPEN’ sign blinks at him as he rakes his mind for something to say.

 

‘Hey, Mark,’ he begins, voice tight. Then he pauses, having no idea where to go next, and slaps himself on the forehead. He feels like a complete idiot. He paces up and down the street, feeling the relief of the cobblestone road through his boots.

 

‘Hey,’ he tries again, wishing he could delete the message and start all over, but there is no trying again. He’s already on his second chance, his mind reminds him.

 

‘Paris is nice. The weather, it’s um, it’s nice – sort of lukewarm. I don’t know if you’ve ever been to Paris, you probably have, whatever, but I went to the Gare d’Orsay today. It was beautiful. It’s a museum, but I’m sure you knew that. Anyway. How are things in America? Is your training going well?’

 

Another pause. Now, he knows what he wants to say, but that doesn’t make it easier. Jackson takes a deep breath. He rests his head against the brick wall behind him and stares up to the moon. It hangs thousands of kilometres above him, a gigantic white sphere so bright against the dark of the sky even as it hides behind stringy clouds. It almost hurts his eyes, yet Jackson can’t find it in him to look away.

 

‘I miss you,’ he manages.

 

 


	4. Barcelona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so unsatisfied with the way I wrote this chapter lol OTL

 

*

 

Jinyoung’s Barcelona apartment shows no trace of his family anymore, save for a pair of tiny pink glitter shoes perched in the corner of the hall belonging to his youngest daughter – forgotten in the bustle of suitcases and flight numbers and ‘Has everyone got their passport?’. The apartment has been bathing in the sun for the past four weeks, temperatures skyrocketing far past 30 degrees Celsius making the place packed with heat, and Jackson can feel a droplet of sweat run down his back as he puts his bag down next to his feet. The front door closes behind him. He walks into the familiar living room, his bare feet silent against the lightwood floor, and slides open the see-through curtains that cover the window that looks out over the Plaça de Catalunya. Jackson watches as meters below him people scramble back and forth. Their skin is dark and their hair even more so; their clothes are light and fashionable; their sunglasses impossibly large.

 

For a moment Jackson just sits there, crouching, and watches the people go by. A group of fat American tourists with even fatter cameras hanging around their necks; a hoard of Chinese businessmen following their tour guide by the exclamation mark of his bright-red umbrella; young skinny girls posing with their arms around each other’s waists in front of the fountain, their long blonde hair fluttering in the wind.

 

He sits up again. It’s only a couple of meters to the kitchen, fifteen steps, and as Jackson passes through the hall an enlarged photograph of a polar bear greets him. It’s a picture he’s seen often, but he never ceases to stop and look.

 

The animal, mighty and magnificent, its skin as white as snow, holds in its claw the poor victim of a seal. Blood seeps down the sides of his limb, the red splattered against his fur grotesque and hard to look at. It holds up its winnings triumphantly; but when one looks closer, they will see that the block of ice it’s standing on is impossibly small. This larger-than-life creature, so strong and fearless, is doomed to fall through; doomed to die. In the far right corner of the photograph the letters ‘TIME’ are printed, loud and proud. It had been the photograph that had made sure Jinyoung would never be worried about his work again. A couple of years back, when Jackson’s popularity had been at its highest – ignited by a series of photographs he had done of the Kumari in Nepal – his friend had told him that surely he would be next. His name, too, would soon grace covers of magazines and would be called by any magazine or blog that wanted only the best photographs to grace their articles. But time passed, and passed. Nothing happened.

 

At some times, like now that he has returned from Paris, Jackson flirts with the idea of becoming a full-time fashion photographer. He mentions it to Kunpimook. Unlike many others in the profession, the fashion photographers were still praised and hailed. Their names graced the covers of expensive editorial books people fawned over in high-end apartments. He could choose to follow in their footsteps. Be as iconic as Cecil Beaton.

 

But lately, Jackson has been feeling tired. So tired that he doesn’t think he would even have the energy to put in the effort. Sometimes, he wonders whether he has made a mistake in choosing to become a photographer. After all, what was it all worth? The pictures of the places he visited, of the cities left behind; of houses forlorn after wars; of tropic forests slaughtered by twisted lumberjacks – what purpose did they serve?

 

What purpose did _he_ serve?

 

He prefers not to dwell on the answers to that question, because he knows what sort of state it will bring his mind into. Instead, he chooses to ignore. He moves on to the next day. Rinse, repeat. Tomorrow will always come, his mother had told him when he was young. He’d cry underneath the covers of his bed, thick tears falling because he’d been bullied because of his height, because of his glasses, and his mother would come and sit with him. She would hold his small hand in hers and repeat this phrase: ‘Tomorrow will always come’ – new chances will always come. Now wipe away those tears. Lately, the idea of a tomorrow hasn’t been all that comforting to Jackson.

 

During the day, he entertains. He makes men laugh and makes women smile, dazzles people with his pretty photographs, charms executives and magazine editors into featuring him. He knows how to work a crowd. His entire body breathes the rhythm in which people communicate. He knows the timing of a joke even when he barely speaks the language.

 

But at night, when the sky turns the blue-purple colour of a nasty bruise, Jackson lies in bed and stares out of the window at nothing. He breathes freely, the weight on his shoulders gone, bathing in the freedom of being able to be himself at last. Free of the pressure of a smile plastered on his face; free of the pressure of having to radiate a buzzing energy to everyone he meets. He revels in the possibility of keeping a frown on his face, of being able to stare at the wall for minutes on end and not thinking about anything at all (only focusing on the dull ache in his chest, trying to push the sadness away) and having no one know about it. No one to judge, no one to see. He takes a deep breath – the fresh air that enters his bedroom window greeting him, along with the cars buzzing and people chattering off in the distance – and exhales.

 

*

 

Mark seems equally as foreign as he seems at home in Spain. His light blonde hair reflects the colour of the sandy beach a couple of meters beneath them, the light breeze coming over from the sea rattling through his fringe. Yet the way his eyes light up when he bares his pearly-white smile reminds Jackson of the lead in every American teenage flick his first girlfriend had dragged him to watch. The homecoming king, robbed of his crown and queen. Mark’s clothes blend in with the locals: the white shirt (elbow-length), the dark brown slacks (plus loafers without socks) could have fooled Jackson. However, the wristband engraved with ‘US 2016’ belies his true nature. Jackson thinks Mark might feel like home wherever he might be.

 

‘No more martini?’ he notes, pointing at the glass of water in the other man’s hand. The blonde smiles, a sly smile where his eyes go off-focus for a bit – remembering nights out and late, Jackson figures.

 

‘No more martini,’ Mark echoes, ‘I’ve had enough to drink for a while.’ He decides, lifting his gaze up from his glass to meet Jackson’s, his black eyelashes fluttering open and close. Lightning strikes through the photographer’s body, his mouth feeling dry all of a sudden. He wishes he could push these feelings away.

 

Attraction. Fondness.

 

He swallows away the lump in his throat.

 

‘Celebrated the win, huh?’ He manages to smile, ‘I heard. Congratulations.’ The compliment, or at least the remembrance of the thing being complimented, makes the blonde man reflect his smile a little shyly, eyes cast to the ground.

 

‘Thanks,’ he whips his fringe to the side, ‘it’s always good for team spirit – winning practice matches. Fires us up.’ He explains in that calm way of his. Jackson nods in understanding, not an amateur to sportsmanship himself, and leans forward on his elbows.

 

‘Listen, Mark,’ he begins, meeting Mark’s dark almond-shaped eyes, ‘I’ve been meaning to say something. To apologise, really. When we… what happened in Shanghai – the way I acted; I was horrible. So, sorry. I know that doesn’t mean shit, but I wanted to tell you that I wish I could take back what I did that day. I should have stayed with you.’ He admits, sighing a breath of relief when it’s all out. It feels as though a weight has been lifted off his shoulders.

 

The other man pauses his hand, drink halfway to his mouth, before putting it down. His smile is gone, but his expression doesn’t read angry. He lets go of the tall glass of water and slides his hand over the table until it meets Jackson’s. Their fingers intertwine awkwardly, the bottom half pressed to the table and the upper half trying to lift up, and Jackson feels the moisture of the ice on Mark’s hand. It’s a little cold, but he doesn’t move away. Mark has his gaze fixed steadily on his, and in that moment Jackson feels as though there aren’t a dozen other people sitting on the terrace; as if there’s just Mark and him here in this foreign country, nobody looking at them, them not looking at anybody else.

 

‘Jackson, it’s okay,’ Mark finally whispers, ‘I know it’s not easy for you. But thank you for saying that. Thank you.’

 

‘Just – fuck,’ the photographer curses, suddenly overcome with emotions he didn’t realize he was struggling with. Yet, the outpouring of emotions seems logical to him now, after weeks of feeling so apathetic. It’s not even sadness, really, but Mark’s soft whispers seems to have pushed him over the edge of a cliff he didn’t know he was standing on. He tries to blink away the tears behind his eyes, but he has no power over them. It’s as if his body has gone numb, and all he can focus on is this sudden floodgate of emotions; opened.

 

‘Hey, hey,’ Mark calls somewhere above him, and Jackson dimly realises his breath is coming out in short jolts. His mind registrars the blonde slapping down a wad of cash onto the table before he is lifted out of his seat, a warm arm being slung around his shoulders.

 

‘Let’s go to the beach for a bit.’ Mark decides, and for the first time in ages, Jackson lets the decision be made for him.

 

*

 

‘I cry like that too, sometimes, you know,’ Mark laughs as he hands Jackson his second tissue, the other man snorting unattractively, ‘when I lose a game or I mess up at practice – man, you should see me. I feel _so_ sorry for myself. I’m like a teenage girl after her first breakup.’ Jackson laughs at Mark through blowing his nose as the blonde makes a face, his mouth constricted and his eyes tightly shut, mimicking the sound of ugly sobbing. He feels oddly unashamed about crying in front of the other. It had always been one of the worst things for him – for others to see his tears. To cry was pathetic; it was weak. Yet, Mark seems to make him laugh so easily, makes him feel as though there’s nothing wrong with his outburst. There is no ugly tightness in his chest, no constriction in his throat as he tries to hold back tears that should be coming. He feels relieved.

 

‘So you sit on your couch eating Ben&Jerry’s?’ he jokes, voice still raspy with tears. Mark’s eyes go wide and he nods excitedly.

 

‘Oh, yeah! I go the whole hog. Do you want to hear me sing ‘All By Myself’?’

 

Jackson laughs into his tissue – an ugly, broken sound that gets cut short by another sob. ‘I’m good. Thanks.’

 

The other man has come to his side unnoticed by Jackson, lifting up one arm to stroke at the fringe of Jackson’s black hair, shrugging the dark locks out of his eyes. ‘Are you okay now?’ he asks softly. Jackson nods resolutely, pulling the snotty tissue off his nose and letting out another deep breath, willing no more sobs to come. This time it’s him that catches Mark’s hand in his. He looks at the other man – his oval eyes and his pink lips.

 

‘Mark,’ he sighs, pausing a moment before he continues, ‘You must know… if we’re really going to do this, that is, that I’m not going to be around a lot of the time. My job, it keeps me far away. I won’t be around in the evenings to – I don’t know,’ he waves his hand around uselessly, drawing images out of thin air, ‘sit on the couch to watch Saturday Night Live.’

 

‘I know,’ Mark ensures him, the grip on his hand tightening, and he smiles a little, ‘the time we’ll spend together will only be more precious, then.’

 

Jackson shakes his head. A cold breeze rolls over from the sea, catches the both of them in a frigid cloud. He can feel a shiver run through the taller man’s body. Jackson steps a little closer, shrinking the distance between them. ‘Just listen to you talk like that,’ he laughs, ‘what are you, Prince Charming?’

 

‘I am if you ask my mother.’ Mark grins. Jackson stands on his toes, his arms curled around the other man’s neck, and closes the distance between the two of them, one hand in Mark’s California-blonde locks, the other gripping the pale of his jawline. All Jackson hears is the rustle of the waves rippling against the shore, folding around each other in a never-ending dance; all he feels is the cold of the sand beneath his feet, the softness of Mark’s lips moving against his.

 

*

 

 


	5. Barcelona, Seoul, Austin

 

 

*

 

Mark’s side profile pressed against the white of the bed. His long, angular jaw pressed sharp into the cotton white pillow; messy blond hair swept to one side, a couple of strands falling down onto the pillow; his hands pressed tightly to his chest, bundled up like a young child curled up in the backseat of his parent’s car. The shutter of Jackson’s camera clicks in the emptiness of the room, the sound clear and crisp to the photographer’s ears. It’s loud, he realises. Too loud, apparently – because the next second Mark’s eyes are fluttering open, a scowl on his face as he groans in dissatisfaction. His arms splutter around for a second, moving from his chest to lie splayed out above his head, before the other sighs and closes his eyes once more in defeat.

 

The shutter clicks again, this time clearer to Mark’s ears. After a minute or two more of trying to fall back into his dream, fighting the urge to fall asleep while craving it at the same time, Mark sits up against the headboard, willing his consciousness to stay. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks groggily, voice hoarse with sleep. The white sheets slide halfway off his body. He catches them with one hand, like a heroine in an American movie trying to discreetly hide her bosom.

 

‘Test shots,’ Jackson explains, waving a polaroid in front of Mark’s face as proof, ‘I haven’t used a camera like this in a while.’

 

‘Mhmm,’ Mark groans, his distaste for any activity winning over his curiosity this early in the morning, and lets his head fall back down onto the pillow again. The covers are pulled back over his head, though there’s really no need. The heat in Jinyoung’s apartment is still suffocating, so much that it allows Jackson to walk around in nothing but his shorts.

 

A few more snaps then: Mark with his nose pressed into the pillow; Mark resting one hand on his stomach, his skin tan and his fingers spread wide; Mark with his head propped up against the headboard, one arm beneath his neck for support. It takes ten minutes for Mark to snap out of his dreams completely. Finally then, he protests: ‘Stop taking pictures of me,’ Jackson is told, long fingers reaching out for the camera in his hands, ‘come back to bed.’

 

The polaroid is put on the bedside table, Mark tugging Jackson forward by the hem of his shorts. When Mark’s hands are trailing its way down Jackson’s chest like that, Jackson finds it easy to make decisions.

 

‘I thought you didn’t photograph people,’ the blonde reminds him as he kisses his way across Jackson’s neck lazily, pausing with every couple of syllables to make his mouth useful in a different way.

 

‘Mmm,’ Jackson hums deep in his throat, cradling Mark’s head in his hands as the other busies his mouth on Jackson’s collarbone, fingers moving through soft blonde hair. ‘I might do it more if people looked like you,’ he muses, smiling a little mischievously, ‘besides – ah,’ his breath hitches when Mark’s lips find a sensitive spot between his collarbone and neck. Mark catches the way the muscles on his stomach move in reflex to the touch, one hand slightly above the waistband of his trousers, keeping him in place. Jackson swallows thickly, tries to keep his arousal from making his voice sound too groggy. ‘Besides, the first thing I did when I saw you was take your picture.’ He manages to finish, before Mark comes up to catch him in another kiss. It’s open mouthed and filthy, and Jackson dimly thinks it’s only possible to have Mark like this when he’s not completely on his guard. Before he puts his uniform on. Early mornings, late nights. He kisses back a little harder, enjoys the freedom while it lasts. He wishes his eyes were like a camera, wishes he could record the image of Mark like this as vividly as his Canon could save the fluorescent pink of a little girl’s dress forgotten in the rumble of a war site. Everything about Mark feels incandescent right now: the copper of his eyes against the black of his eyelashes, gazing up at him; the brightness of his hair contrasting with his body; the way his chin is not quite round but a little square; his morning stubble grazing sharply against Jackson’s skin; his hands that feel like fire on Jackson’s body.

 

‘About that picture,’ Mark whispers between his teeth, Jackson’s mouth still only a centimetre from his. The both of them are breathing heavily, already waiting for the next moment in which Mark’s lips will once more collide with the other’s. ‘Am I ever going to see it?’

 

‘What, now?’ Jackson asks, startled, pulling away slightly further.

 

‘Are you kidding me?’ the other man retorts. In the next moment he has Jackson grabbed by his neck, pulling him down onto the bed. He pushes his tongue into the other’s mouth and it’s slick and wet and fantastic. Mark lets out a guttural moan as Jackson presses his teeth into his bottom lip. One hand slides down the length of Jackson’s body to slip inside the front of his shorts, roughly palming the tent that’s forming there. ‘I don’t want you thinking of anything but me,’ the blonde whispers into Jackson’s ear with a grin, voice hot and wet. It draws a groan from Jackson, thick and deep. Mark thinks about eliciting more of those sounds from Jackson, a surge of lust striking through his body.

 

‘Don’t think I’ll have any trouble with that.’ Jackson breathes, grinding his hips down onto Mark’s, his camera long forgotten.

 

*

 

Seoul feels a little more like home to Jackson. The city is louder, the people more quiet. It’s all opposites here. Tall skyscrapers stand around small, flat-roofed buildings; _ahjummas_ in wide colourful pants walk amongst the young in their trendy designer brands, careful not to get swallowed up in the arms of academic Success; loneliness gets lost in the speed of modern life. Jinyoung’s apartment here is small, like most are, but no less beautiful than in Madrid.

 

The older man smiles as Jackson hands him the Lotte Market bag (contents: one pair of glittery pink shoes). ‘You’re a saviour for this,’ he laughs, rolling his eyes without malice, ‘Yoojun threw a _fit_ once she noticed she’d forgotten them.’ And when Jackson laughs, a slap on his upper-arm: ‘It’s not funny! What do we say to uncle Jackson, Yoojun? What do we say when someone does something for you?’ (here, a fatherly glance directed at the girl). ‘Thank you, uncle Jackson.’ Arms crossed behind a small back, one foot moving side to side, drawing figures on the wooden floor, eyes shyly cast away. ‘That’s right, thank you.’ A smile.

 

At 23:30, Jinyoung’s apartment fills itself with sounds that are familiar to Jackson’s ears. They come through a little hazy, as if Jackson found himself in that state between being awake and being asleep – perhaps that was to blame on the amount of _soju_ Jinyoung had managed to pour into him. His ears ring with the buzz.

 

The scooter of a deliver boy, whirring off in the distance; a group of teenagers in their high school uniforms, giggling on the playground next to the apartment block, music blasting loudly from their phone; the feet of Jinyoung’s neighbours tapping lightly on the wooden floor on the other side of the concrete wall as they move across rooms; cicadas chirping loudly, announcing their presence to the ink-blue sky.

 

‘Sounds like he’s too good a man for you,’ Jinyoung says over a shot of soju. Jackson proceeds to flip him off, which sends the other man in a set of giggles – as Jackson’s defiance to his snappy remarks always seems to do. There are little crows’ feet around his eyes, his hand pressed to his mouth as he attempts to muffle his amusement. Jackson thinks there’s something fantastic about seeing someone as handsome as Jinyoung like this: brought down to anything but exciting fantasies and beautiful imaginations, and yet as such quite a fantasy in itself. They had only met in college, but Jackson can see a much younger Jinyoung in his mind, laughing at a lame joke a school friend has told him, hand pressed to his mouth and wrinkles around his eyes.

 

He slams another drink down his throat.

 

After a moment, once Jinyoung has managed to calm down a bit, he adds in a more serious voice: ‘No, really. It’s good you’ve found someone.’

 

A pause. Jinyoung stares at Jackson, leaning back on his elbows and his legs splayed out underneath the low table, head cocked to the side, completely at ease in his own home. Jackson wonders how often his friend has laid quite like this; if his wife sits next to him similarly, maybe rests her head on his shoulder. Would they watch TV? Would they drink wine? Would she find his lips in a kiss? Maybe she would tell him about her day, something amusing, and Jinyoung might laugh in the same way that he just had, only more contained. Radiating love rather than friendship. Jackson has the sudden urge to have his camera in his hands. Not that Jinyoung would let him, though.

 

‘I worried about you, you know,’ Jinyoung admits, voice low. It’s so soft Jackson almost doesn’t catch it, but he realises it was meant to be that way. He realises Jinyoung could never have said the same thing in broad daylight, in full sobriety. The man groans as he sits up a bit, his long arms reaching for a half-chewed piece of spicy chicken. He picks at it, changes his mind, and reaches for the dried grapes instead. ‘When you just broke up with Jaebum, you were a mess.’ He adds, though it’s without malice.

 

Jackson snorts loudly, pulling his baseball cap a little lower. ‘I know,’ he acknowledges. His friend continues, almost as if talking to himself, completely ignoring Jackson’s remark. He draws patters in the air with his finger, loose spirals that don’t mean anything. A general idea, a thought blooming in the other’s mind.

 

‘You wandered around for months and I could never reach you,’ he murmurs, ‘That wasn’t like you. I worried.’ He repeats then, now with more finality – as if he’s content with what he’s decided to say and will now speak no more.

 

‘Well you don’t have to worry no more,’ Jackson states, sliding closer to the table to pour his friend another drink, ‘Mark keeps me busy. I feel like a secretary sometimes, answering so many calls.’

 

Jinyoung pauses to giggle over his glass of soju, staring into the distance, beautiful dark-brown eyes glazed over. ‘A secretary… imagine you in a tight skirt,’ he laughs. Jackson can’t help but join in with his friend. The image of himself in a pencil skirt, two muscular and very hairy legs entering into sight, a tank-top peeking out from underneath the waistband – well, it would be a sight.

 

‘Fuck you,’ he laughs, enjoying the burn of the alcohol he tosses into his throat, ‘I’d rock the shit out of that! You know I would.’

 

Jinyoung doesn’t say anything, another fit of giggles taking over him. Halfway through, he chokes on his own spit, couching and laughing all at once, and Jackson is in stitches. On the other side of the planet, Mark Tuan has his hands perched between his pillow and his head, a bluebird chirping him awake. Sunlight falls in through his window, peering his eyelids open. They still feel heavy with sleep. He rolls over to the other side of the bed, the sheets rustling underneath his touch.

 

*

 

This is one thing Jackson is never going to get used to, he muses, as he swirls across the highway into Texas. The immensity of the dry landscape that stretches out on his left and right: burnt sienna mountains and bronze sandscapes, hidden beneath a burning golden sun which hangs high up in the sky, stretching out before him as far as the eye can see. The smooth tunes of Lyle Lovett come in a little grainy. Next to him, Mark switches to a local radio station.

 

The roads in America are vast – distinct from any other elsewhere in the world, Jackson knows from experience – built to accommodate their equally American cars, as broad as they are heavy. It makes Jackson feel mighty, sitting so high above the road, in this 4,100 pounds Wrangler Jeep, going 80 miles an hour. Mark sits in the passenger seat, a shock of blonde hair against tanned skin (they had done a little sunbathing in Louisiana), leaning slightly out of the window. The wind that rushes through his hair is warm; pleasant. Jackson wonders whether all of this feels normal to Mark; whether the other feels suffocated in the narrow streets of Paris with its modest European cars skipping down the cobblestone roads; whether he has made a journey just like this once, his sister and he in the backseat sharing Gameboys and giggles, their father smiling at the pair in the rear-view mirror, back when Mark was ten-years-old. Mostly Jackson thinks of Hong Kong – thinks of his mother.

 

They’re on their way to another championship (Mark seemed to have them every other weekend) and Jackson had decided he could pitch in a week holiday, if only to chauffeur Mark around and to get to hold him in his arms. Blurry webcam screens and flirty WhatsApp messages, though all very well, never would be enough for Jackson.

 

He makes a right into another mile-long road. As far as Mark can see, there are no other cars in sight. There’s still a three-hour drive in front of them. Mark pulls his head back into the car, shutting the window halfway. The violent whirring of the wind falls away, nearly disappearing. Mark closes the window all the way through.

 

‘You know, we’ve known each other for more than a year now,’ he notes all of a sudden.

 

‘Really?’ Jackson remarks, sparing a sideward glance at the blonde. ‘It doesn’t seem so long.’

 

‘Well, we did meet in Morocco.’

 

Jackson lets out a breathy laugh. When he turns to see whether the other shares a smile, he finds Mark staring ahead at the road in front of them.

 

‘‘Met’ is a strong word. We didn’t really _know_ each other back then,’ Jackson laughs.

 

‘Oh?’ Mark lifts an eyebrow, ‘didn’t we? I’d say I’d seen all of you by the second time we met. Or do you regularly do that sort of thing?’ he teases, ‘how many people don’t you ‘know’?’ his fingers form imaginary brackets in the air.

 

‘You know what I mean.’ Jackson insists, smiling. He switches into sixth gear, the car buzzing ahead underneath their feet.

 

Mark doesn’t say anything. He smiles. There’s a warmth in his chest, a hot sort of warmth which swells up from the inside, tingling through his body all the way to his fingertips, forcing the corners of his mouth into a smile. It’s what happiness feels like, he realises – what it has always felt like. Happiness because Jackson is here; because Mark can listen to what Jackson says and what he is thinking, because he can glance sideways and know Jackson is there to be found; happiness because they are together.

 

Suddenly, a sour thought comes over his mind. He frowns.

 

Mark moves his hand to the gearshift, hovering right over Jackson’s where it rests over the handbrake. It comes down onto the other man’s smaller hands, warmth spreading over Mark’s palm as Jackson intertwines their hands (normally Mark wouldn’t do this sort of thing, but there’s no danger of stopping in sight). Another pang of heat strikes through his body, his stomach busy doing flips Mark hasn’t felt in ever.

 

_I love you_ , he wants to tell Jackson, the words resting on his lips – waiting to spill out – but it feels like there isn’t enough time. There’s never enough time.

 

His want to utter those words stretches out inside of his mind, inside of the suddenly narrow car, ballooning until Mark feels like he can’t stand it anymore. He feels as though there are ants crawling inside his body, rummaging through his frame. He wants Jackson to swerve the car off the road, to step on the breaks and crawl over to the passenger seat; he wants to clutch Jackson’s muscular arms in his embrace, to press his nose into Jackson’s dark hair which he knows smells like his coconut shampoo; to listen to the soft sighs that Jackson forms in between breaths, sounds he’s unaware of making, and which Mark listens to when he’s trying to fall asleep.

 

And yet. To admit to all of this seems unfair to Mark – after all, he had promised Jackson. ‘I won’t mind,’ he had told him. And now he _did_ mind. But what was there left to do? The bed was made – and now he would have to lie.

 

Far into the distance, Mark can see the sky has turned grey with the accumulation of rain clouds. A shot of thunder dimly comes through, the sound barely reaching their ears.

 

‘I can’t believe you’re leaving in three days,’ he sighs, gripping Jackson’s hand a little tighter.

 

The other doesn’t say anything. Mark lets his head sink back against the headrest, peering through his eyelashes at the road in front of them. The song that is playing on the radio is a sad one. Mark vaguely remembers his aunt singing it, back when she used to babysit them, singing it while she’d do the dishes. Her sweet voice, as soft as her character, would resonate through the kitchen as he would try to follow along with every word she sang. _See the pyramids along the Nile…_

 

Wasn’t the rhythm different from what he remembered? Suddenly, Mark’s memory doesn’t seem all that clear. Maybe his aunt didn’t sing that song, after all.

 

Beneath their feet, the car moves on, bumping its way through the vastness of the state’s landscape, cradling Mark to sleep.

 

_Watch the sunrise from a tropic isle…_

Before the first drop of rain falls onto the windscreen, Mark is gone.

 


	6. 14:17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I DIED WRITING THIS
> 
> I'm sorry this took 10 years. University wants me killed. 
> 
> Enjoy.

 

*

 

The first time Mark doesn’t answer his call, Jackson isn’t worried. It’s not the first time his summons have gotten ignored, and he figures Mark must be busy flying 3 meters high between the parallel bars, his hands white with magnesium and his back sticky with sweat. It’s 6AM on a Wednesday morning and Jackson sits on the roof terrace of his share house in Kobe, looking out over the low-squatted buildings of traditional Japanese architecture. He puts his phone down and picks up his camera, resolves to call the other back at a later time, somewhere between the end of shooting and the start of lunch.

 

At this moment, Mark is still living in the past, lagging several time zones behind. At 14:00 precisely, he starts his warming up for the bars. He stretches his arms high above his head, right hand resting on the elbow of his left arm and locks his arms together like a pretzel. His muscles bulge thickly, his veins straining against skin. Swaying his tangle of arms left and right, he feels his triceps tighten before he releases again. All the while he keeps an eye on his teammate Tim, who is busy perfecting a double stretched salto on the floor, their manager watching out for any mistakes he might find; a bent knee, a little jump at the landing, a shaky leg.

 

At 14:15, Mark’s trainer has his hands around Mark’s waist as he hoists the thin man up to the high bar. Mark’s hands, long and wiry, clutch sharply around the light wooden bar, the muscles in his arms shaking with the strain of keeping his body hanging 3 meters above the ground. He takes the first swing. His legs sway forth, his toes pointing up to the sky, and then back again – his waist curving back, his chest pumped up to the ceiling – and then he’s standing up in a handstand, parallel to the bar. He tries for a half turn. Somewhere from the corner of the room (he’s unsure where sound is coming from, with this speed and this altitude), a teammate cheers for him. Two other join in cheekily, hooting and clapping more teasingly than anything else. Mark registrars it somewhere in the back of his mind, his heart swelling a little at the display of friendly banter, but his mind is concentrated on the exercise. Another swing, faster this time; picking up speed. A droplet of sweat runs down the side of Mark’s face. His arms feel tired, a little sore. It’s normal to feel this way this close to the national championship, he reminds himself, but he can’t help but wonder whether he’s gotten weaker since the last world cup. He barely manages to keep himself hoisted up on the bar, his arms straining so much he thinks he doesn’t feel them at all. Numb. A full Pirouette – that’s what he needs to pull off in order to get his D-score up there. He had coated his hands with as much magnesium as he thought was possible. Now, he wriggles his hands around the bar once more for support. Then, he throws his legs forward.

 

At 14:17, as he attempts to returns from the pirouette into a full handstand, Mark’s left hand barely misses the bar, which he tries to catch in the movement of flight, grabbing onto thin air. Less than a second later, his right hand gives away as well. Just a second, and Mark is falling down – three meters in a fraction of a second – and he hits the ground. His consciousness is lost as soon as his head touches the mat, deaf to the horrified gasps of his teammates.

 

*

 

At 8:42 AM, Jackson has returned to his share house in Kobe. The sun is up and well, which means his photoshoot is finished. He’d gotten some good shots, he muses, as he throws his snapback onto the messy unmade bed, shots he would find easy to sell. In the corner of the room, he sees the red light by the phone blinking back at him. As he plops down onto his bed and pulls out his camera, scrolling through the pictures, Jinyoung’s voice fills the room. It’s a little creaky, a little lower than his usual speaking voice, and if it weren’t for the fact that Jackson knew this was what Jinyoung sounded like over the phone (he’d heard this voice often, at late nights and early mornings, yearning for a familiar tone) Jackson would not instantly have recognized it.

 

‘ _Hey Jackson, how are you?_ ’ Jinyoung greets, and it’s so familiar the other man might have been in the room next to Jackson, leaning on one arm, his hand pushed roughly into his thick black locks, gazing down on him with those deep black eyes.

 

Hey Jackson (halt), how are you?

 

A pause, as if Jinyoung is giving him time to take in the words, to never make him feel pressured. Never ‘hello, _hyung’_ (Yugyeom), never ‘yo, Wang Kong!’ (Kunpimook), never ‘hi, handsome’ (followed by a small but delighted smile – Mark). A thousand miles away and a couple of hours in the past (message received: 3:20 AM) Jinyoung continues.

 

‘ _Look, I don’t mean to bother you with work while you’re already busy. I know about your Kobe project. But, look – and before I say anything, I want to tell you not to get too excited about anything, because you do, and I’m always telling you not to, because nothing about this is confirmed – but I wanted to tell you something that might be good news for you._

_You know Jason Huang, right? He used to be super involved in some youth project in Taiwan, but he recently crossed over to the TIME team in New York. He told me you two met before, so you probably already know this, but he adores you. Absolutely adores you._ (Here, the r is stressed.) _To the point where I might have considered a restraining order, had the Constitution blessed me with such powers,’_ Jinyoung’s voice drops an octave, sliding into cynicism, and Jackson laughs. His friend couldn’t help his habits of sarcasm, after all. ‘ _But the good thing is that they absolutely want you for the magazine. You need to put forward with something really good, obviously, but they’re eager to have your name on the ticket._ _The plan is to hold the exhibition in six months. The Roche has been decided for the venue._

_Let me know if you’re interested as fast as possible and I’ll put you into contact with the team. Also, remember to eat your meals. Don’t make me have to tell your mother. You looked skinnier than ever last time I saw you. Carbs are fuel, not forbidden.’_

A deep sigh.

_‘Alright. See you soon, Jackson.’_

Jinyoung’s voice is cut off by the loud beep. Still lying on his bed, Jackson smiles at his phone – a smile that is filled with all of Jackson’s fondness for Jinyoung fussing over him and the care the other hides in his wry remarks and curt demands – and listens as the room fills itself once more with silence. His mind wanders back to the photographs of that morning, and he dimly wonders if any of them could make the cut.

 

*

 

By the time Jackson gets to hear about the fall, he’s already back in Seoul, preparing to visit Jinyoung with a portfolio of Time magazine hopefuls underneath his arm. The map falls from his grip; like the petals of a rose in the dawn of winter, and the photographs come pouring out over the floor. The phone in his hand feels as heavy as stone and his blood runs cold despite the winter coat wrapped around his body. Though the person on the other side of the phone is calling his name, Jackson can barely speak, so clouded is his mind. The words he hears become a blur around him, disappearing into a haze, like purple smoke clouds curling up into the night sky. It’s as if everything falls away at that moment, all the noise and the jittering sounds of life drowning into the darkness behind him, until all that’s left is the voice of Mark’s coach telling him what has happened. Jackson remembers to ask a few things, the essentials; is he awake? Is he hurt? Will he get better? Can Jackson speak to him? (The answers: no, a little, slowly, not at the moment.)

 

As he places the phone back down, he realizes he even forgot to ask where Mark is hospitalized; whether he can see him, and when. He wonders what Mark looks like, if his injury is severe. If he might never swing high on the bars again (Jackson waves this voice away – it’s too unpleasant a thought to entertain, even just for a second).

 

He calls Jinyoung and tells him he came down with the flu. The other man says to send the pictures through email. Four hours later Jackson finally manages to, sitting unmoving behind his laptop, suddenly unsure of what to do. He doesn’t feel anything; no need to eat, no need to speak, no need to move. The emptiness of his apartment which is usually so unremarkable suddenly scares him. Sitting there with his coat pooled around his waist and his laptop still buzzing, Jackson becomes aware of all the hidden sounds in his apartment:

 

The rattling of the heating as it switches itself on. The sound of gravel on the neighbor’s driveway, followed by lighter resonating footsteps, Italian leather crushing pebbles (‘Mum, papa’s home!’ – muted). The gargling sound his sink makes when the last drop of water is swallowed up.

 

Normally Jackson isn’t here so take notice of all of this. But sitting alone behind his laptop, right at that moment, he wishes for his house to be filled up with human sound. However, Jackson knows too that it isn’t just any sound that will do – he could visit Jinyoung or invite Yugyeom, could ask Hyuna to come over – but what he wants to hear is Mark’s voice. What he _needs_ to hear. Mark’s voice, clear and stable, with that light edge to it that Jackson knew it got when the blonde was in one of his smiley moods; his voice without any sign of sickness.

 

That night, when Jackson finally manages to get to sleep through his worrying, he dreams of Mark. In his dream he draws Mark as he last remembers him most vividly – the image shoots up in his vision like a photograph so clear: Mark with his dirty blonde locks leaning back against the headrest of the Jeep, eyes closed and mouth hanging slightly open in sleep, his fringe being tickled by the southern wind, the soft hairs lightly swaying left and right, eyelashes brushed over tanned skin.

 

Abruptly, the imagine falls away. For a moment, it makes way for complete darkness. Then slowly but surely, another picture comes into vision.

 

A room with charcoal walls, stretching wide and high into the air, like pine trees looming over its forest.  In the corner of the room a machine stands squeaking, panting as if it were crawling on its last legs. Its pipes are the size of barrels, crawling from out of the floor like snakes hissing at their prey, twisting and curling around each other until they finally lurch themselves against the ceiling. In the middle of the room lies Mark, in a bed that’s suspended mid-air, his naked feet sticking out from underneath the thin blanket that’s covering him. Jackson steps into the room. His feet move him towards Mark, though the ground underneath grabs hold of his limbs, trying to pull him down into the darkness, as if Jackson is moving through water as thick as clay. But he does reach the bed, and when he does he stretches a hand out to touch Mark’s face. With horror, Jackson finds out his partner’s skin – once tan and warm – now feels as cold as ice and all its colour has drained away. Finally seeing him so close, Jackson now discovers that the man lying on the bed isn’t Mark at all. Where Mark’s solemn expression is supposed to be, there is now a gaping hole through which Jackson can only peer at the darkness underneath; like a piece of China brutally cut up. He tries to find Mark’s eyes, tries to find some form of life in this body underneath his touch, but comes up empty.

 

And in his dream he just keeps stroking Mark’s face, the frigidness of his skin the only thing he can feel, the emptiness of his face the only thing he can see, and the blonde locks of his hair feel so rough Jackson can’t run his fingers through –

 

With a start, Jackson wakes himself up. He slams his bedside lamp on, the small yellow light that flocks into the room more than welcome to him, and sits up straight. His heart is still beating fast with fear and Jackson dimly feels cool tears streaming down his face as soon as he opens his eyes, trapped underneath his lids as he was dreaming. It takes maybe five seconds before he has forgotten most of the dream (though he tries to cling on to it), but the image of Mark’s missing expression – the darkness where his eyes, nose and lips should be – is impressed in his memory. Though he tries to steer his mind towards a happier picture of Mark – of which his head houses plenty – that unsettling imagine floats back up each time, taunting him and clawing at his heart with fear. Jackson wildly gropes around his bedside table for his glasses before hurriedly shooting out of his bed, his bare feet cold to the wooden floor in winter.

 

The lighting in his studio is more and therefore harsher to his eyes, but Jackson doesn’t stop to blink twice before he crouches down in front of the Victorian cabinet where the photographs from last year are stored. The boxes are labelled, months and seasons plus city, and he has no problem finding the right one. He yanks [June - summer ’25 - Morocco] out of the cabinet and rushes his fingers through the different photographs lined up inside. Jackson knows which one it is (the second before last) because he had pulled it out just two days before, his mind on the exhibition of Jason Huang. This one would have been perfect, Jackson thinks, as he holds the photograph up so it can catch the light in the room. It would have been printed ten times the size of this one, displayed in the center of the room. Indeed, Jackson had no doubt; this would be the one featured on all the posters, all the billboards and magazine covers. Even he can tell it’s a beautiful shot.

 

He doesn’t bother putting the box back in its former position, leaves it forgotten on the floor with its lid discarded to the side, and strides into the kitchen. All the cutlery in the drawer rattles as Jackson yanks it open a little too harshly. His fingers find the lighter quickly, its long slender neck standing out from thin chopsticks and round spoons. Jackson has to yank off the plastic from the photograph first. It falls to the floor in left-to-right sweeps like a feather, and then he takes a deep breath. He looks at the picture one more time.

 

The argan tree, curling into the sapphire blue of the sky; the emotion that breathes through the angle of Mark’s body; the mystery of his expression, his almond eyes dark and brooding. As Jackson closes his eyes, he can once more hear the way the wind had rustled through the trees, remember the heat that had pressed down onto him, as if it were something tangible. A shiver runs through his body and his eyes fly open. Jackson shakes his head, shakes the memory away. He gazes into Mark’s eyes as flames begin to lap at the photograph, as though Mark were standing in front of him and he could gaze into them once more, like that day.

 

*

 

_Jackson, tell me something._

_Why didn’t you tell me you were such a great photographer? You know I have been telling you portraits were your thing since college, but you wouldn’t believe me. And now look at these. Jesus Christ. I’m so impressed that I can’t even be jealous. The man in the photos is that Mark, right? I know you like to be a little mysterious as far as that man is concerned, but I hope you won’t be mysterious about these pictures. They have got to be shared by the world. I forwarded them to Jason and I can’t tell you how enthusiastic he was. The team can’t publish the intimate portraits in the Times, but they told me they want the Morocco photograph you sent me for the cover. That is him, too, isn’t it? It’s a stunning picture. It took my breath away, and before you try to laugh this off I’m going to tell you that that is true._

_You make people feel something with your photographs, Jackson. Sadness. Fear. Wonder. You’re not some run-of-the-mill clickety clack hobby photographer. You’re talented, you stubborn twat. And just to make you groan all through this email I’m going to repeat that a couple of times._

_You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented. You’re talented._

_And don’t you forget it, you idiot. Don’t answer this email. Instead – come see me soon._

*

 

The walls in Mark’s room are not charcoal. The floor is not a swampy mass conspiring to drag Jackson into darkness. The machine standing in the corner of the room does not look like a death tool. Mark’s smile is still neatly in place despite being a little frail, the corners of his eyes signaling fatigue. Jackson tries to contain his excitement (the doctors had told him Mark’s should rest and not get himself too worked up, something which doctors seemed always to say), but he can’t help himself. He all but shoots to Mark’s side.

 

‘Mark,’ he calls. It makes the other man look up.

 

‘Hey, you,’  smiles Mark, all white teeth and a hand instantly reaching out for Jackson’s, ‘you got here fast.’

 

‘Jesus Christ Mark,’ Jackson gasps, letting out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. He takes up Mark’s offer instantaneously, intertwines Mark’s slender hand with his. The touch is warm to his skin. ‘You fucking scared me.’ Jackson admits shakily.

 

Mark has the audacity to laugh. ‘It was just a fall,’ he reasons. His pinky strokes Jackson’s thumb slowly, back and forth and back and forth, and Jackson wants to clutch his hand so much tighter, wants to hold Mark so much closer entirely. All in time, he tells himself. But his heart is racing with relief. Mark is here; right in front of him. That doesn’t make everything right, but it’s more than half a start. ‘They had to monitor me because of the concussion,’ the blonde explains, gesturing with his other hand towards the machine in the corner, which stands happily bleeping away every two seconds. He glances down at their hands, clutched together, and then back up at Jackson. His smile seems to grow wider. Something in Jackson’s chest restricts with warmth.

 

‘It’s okay,’ he ensures his partner, ‘it’s really okay. Normally they would have let me go already. But you know… since I’m such a hotshot, important sportsman.’ He grins.

 

‘Yeah, you’re important,’ the other breathes, ‘You’re fucking important to _me_. Mark, I was so worried,’ Jackson admits. Taking one of the wooden chairs that stand behind him, Jackson sits himself down, not letting go of Mark’s hand. There is no asking whether he can stay – Jackson is staying, whether Mark wants him to or not (and the answer is probably not; Mark must be tired, the doctors must have told him to rest, but Jackson is going to be selfish for once). He leans in over the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on the soft white covers Mark has pulled down to his waist, and covers their hands with his right.

 

‘I had these dreams...’ he begins, almost a whisper, then trails off with a shake of his head. Jackson has to swallow down a lump in his throat. Hearing the worried tone of the other’s voice, Mark’s expression changes instantly, his eyebrows furrowing.

 

‘What dreams?’ he asks intently. Jackson can feel something shift in the air. In Mark’s mind, something starts ticking, figuring out what is wrong and why Jackson is being like this. Jackson doesn’t want Mark to be serious right now. What he wants if for Mark to laugh all he can, forget about recent moments where he couldn’t, laugh until he can walk out of this hospital again and start doing what he loves again (though this last thing Jackson only wants begrudgingly, because he knows it’s what Mark wants, and what gives him happiness – if it were up to him, Jackson would hide Mark away from anything that could hurt the other man even in the slightest).

 

‘Nothing,’ he answers with a quick shake of the head, ‘nothing, I didn’t mean anything.’

 

Before Mark can protest, Jackson leans in and presses his lips onto the other’s. It’s a little awkward, with so many obstacles between them: the bed perched between the both of them; their hands squeezed together somewhere in there as well, but Jackson will be damned if it doesn’t feel good to finally be able to kiss Mark again. Mark’s lips move against his own, soft and slow. Truth is, he doesn’t want to let go. So he holds on just a little longer.

 

The need for people comes in two different forms. There is wishing to see someone, and then there is longing to see someone. The latter is a far worse condition, for it is not only mental but both mental and physical. It affects your body as if you were an addict, craving a drug the body needs with every breath. Without it, your hands shake and your mind races with restless. You cannot sleep and you cannot eat; you cannot live but a second without your thoughts drifting to that One Person. And with every day, this feeling only becomes worse; more intolerable.

 

All the cells in Jackson’s body have longed for the presence of Mark. To look into his small, dark eyes and see him looking back. To hear – not just remember, or recall – what Mark’s voice sounds like. Drown in the sound of his tongue forming that every syllable, simple and clear. His timbre. His laugh. To smell, without even taking notice, what that person smells like.

 

(By-the-counter 1$ soap, a hint of coffee, a touch of cologne.)

 

Jackson didn’t know he could miss someone quite like that.

 

It is not sexual, this need, but it is physical. It is the longing of someone’s presence. To be able to communicate with them freely; to push and to pull, to feel and to touch. The comfort of knowing that they are there, and that whatever happens, you will be there to protect them.

 

When Jackson first heard about the accident, he was not so much in shock for what happened, but rather for what _could_ have happened. He woke up in the middle of the night after a restless sleep, and went into the studio where a hundred Marks gazed back at him. Mark in Michigan, toothy smile included. Mark in his pajamas, secured in time in some Hong Kong hotel room while Jackson knew he wasn’t looking, a toothbrush dangling from the side of his mouth; Mark and Jackson, their skin tanned and the cyan sea glistening in the background; Mark in Morocco – but a stranger. Jackson stood in his studio for what seemed like hours but what might have only been minutes – he wouldn’t know, time had seemed to work so strangely then – and he had tried to grab hold of the person that those imagines presented. Perhaps then, this feeling in his body might be more bearable. Yet, every time Jackson would try and puzzle together the form of Mark in his mind, something essential seemed to vanish into thin air.

 

Jackson pondered, carefully and softly, a thought so crude he barely allowed himself to think it, what would have happened if Mark had died.

 

It was a possibility. Not because Mark had now fallen, but because Mark was so far away so much of the time. What did the other man do? What passed his mind when Jackson was seven hours away? It was perfectly feasible that one day Jackson might pick up the phone to hear Mark had passed, whatever reason that had.

 

And then it all comes crashing down onto Jackson.

 

He had spent his life photographing the world, trying to take away the essence of all that he wanted to immortalize. He had done this with buildings, cities, forests, entire continents; and then he had tried to do the same with Mark. But for all the photographs he had in his possession, he couldn’t make Mark come to live. It dawned on Jackson that they could never bring him back. Not even a thousand photographs could ever _capture_ Mark.

 

Jackson rummages through a bunch of photographs taken in America. They’re beautiful, all of them, and Mark is beautiful _in_ them, but he stills feels nothing. Softly, Jackson chuckles to himself. So much for his Time Award, he thinks. So much for his legacy as a photographer.

 

He takes the first photograph from the pile. With one hand on the left corner and the other on the right, Jackson starts ripping his memories apart.

 

*

 

Mark’s hair is back to pitch black. It’s still taking Jackson time to adjust to the harshness of the colour compared to the gentle blonde he had fallen in love with. His skin is lighter, the side-effect of so much time spent inside the house. The house, his mind resonates – _their_ house – and his heart swells; barely able to conceal his excitement at those casual words with so much meaning, thrown out there as if they were nothing at all. Jackson does not mind this change.

 

In the air hangs the savoury smell of the Italian stew Jackson had been struggling to cook up for that entire Sunday afternoon, tender meat bubbling away on the stove. Mark really was the cook amongst the both of them, he thinks as he wipes his hands on his apron, and that wasn’t saying much for Mark’s culinary capabilities. Jackson peeks at his partner from around the kitchen door. The other sits on the couch, his shirt a sapphire blue, his shoes ragged and white with thin black stripes. His fingers (long and slender) work away at a torn gymnastics shoe, stitch after painstaking stitch. Jackson notices all this with a sudden clarity, as if this were the first day he could see; as if he had been blind all his life, and was now struggling with the overwhelming purity of all things. As if Jackson might be called upon to paint this very scene one day, and he had to recreate all of this with perfect vision, not missing a single detail.

 

Jackson thinks he might remember this moment one day. There is nothing particular about it that might make it memorable, nothing spectacular or out of the ordinary, but he knows from the overflowing emotions coursing through his veins that somehow it will stand etched in his mind. He cannot take his eyes off of the play unfolding in front of him. Someday, he will be lying in bed, his mind nearly in a dream but not quite there yet, and something of this moment will flash before his eyes.

 

Mark’s white shoes, cradled between the elegant curve of his hands, the barely-there silver needle piercing through, coming up one side and diving back down again. The sound of American pop songs flowing from the radio, drowned out by the faint simmer of Sunday stew. The wine red of the curtains they bought on a whim, its embroidered golden flowers catching onto the sunlight trickling into the room.

 

Perhaps he will be talking to Mark some other day, and perhaps the other man will bent his back just so that today’s pose will flash through Jackson’s mind, unnoticed. Perhaps someday, far, far away, this day will remain standing in Jackson’s memory as he tries to remember a happier time. Certainly, some lonely night Jackson will retrieve this moment in his thoughts, as a comfort to his troubled mind, and he will smile to himself.

 

Mark’s hand stills. The needle sticks halfway through the thin white fabric, an even whiter thread halting halfway through the air. His right foot leans on his left knee, cross-legged, while his left hangs down limply, foot touching the carpet. Beneath his left eye is a tiny bug bite, fiery red against the beige of the rest of his skin. His eyelashes are long and black, his eyes almond and even darker, like a deer’s. The colour of his lips is similar to that of the half-eaten apple that stands on the coffee table in front of him (scarlet), and it hangs open slightly.

 

‘What are you staring at?’ asks Mark, his American r poking through his Chinese accent. In the background, the radio DJ switches over to a different song. Through the window Jackson can see a sparrow fleeing its nest, a blur of black flashing by his vision.

 

‘Nothing,’ Jackson smiles, ‘nothing at all.’

 


End file.
